I know, I know, I’ve been a bit tardy with the posting this week. Sorry.

To be honest, after our trip to the hospital the other day nothing else seemed very important.

We went out for dinner the other night to celebrate the fact that B isn’t going to shuffle off his mortal coil anytime soon – unless he gets run over by a bus.

6  million brownie points if you know (without googling it) where the expression ‘to shuffle off ‘ etc. comes from.

The choice as to where togo for dinner was mine – as was the suggestion to go out for dinner actually, God, I’m soooo idle!!  My restaurant of choice was the posh Chinese place up the hill. B looked a bit crestfallen as he’d secretly been harbouring fantasies of tucking into a huge fillet steak but he was very stoic about it. “Wherever you want to go darling is fine by me.”   Maybe the choice should have been his – it was after all his nip that had been set about with a hole punch.

Pulling up at the Chinese we noticed it looked a bit quiet even for a Tuesday.  Of course it was shut – even though there was a ginormous sign advertising the Tuesday – Friday early bird specials.  Dagnabbit!!!  Obviously the universe had taken pity on B and engineered it so that he got his steak – the next restaurant along  on this particular road is the Italian one that he really likes.  Oh well.

We were shown straight to our table, a well placed one near the window so we cold both watch all the goings on. A dim looking waitress came to take our drinks order:  1 large glass of red, 1 large glass of white and a diet coke.  That’s not hard is it?

Two minutes later a young lad arrived with 2 glasses of red and a coke. We pointed out the mistake to him, he clearly wasn’t very happy but hey ho, such is life. Next thing we know he’s putting down the glass of red wine and his tray starts to wobble. For a second he looked like he was putting on a show for us by juggling everything but oh no – next thing we knew there was was a huge CRASH as his tray hit the floor and rolled off between the legs of the couple on the next table. Down went the two remaining drinks, mostly down the waiter  and down my legs, into my best leather shoes but also all over the table and floor.

The poor chap stood there stunned for a moment then said a weak, “ow.”

“Are you hurt?” I enquired. To be honest he did look a bit like an extra from ‘Nightmare on Elm St’  Most of the red wine had gone on to his nice white shirt. The poor lad was dripping all over the place and horribly aware that everyone was staring at him.

We were quickly moved to another, not as good, table and the waiter disappeared. When we enquired about his whereabouts we were informed that he was too embarrassed to come back and was working in a back room. Poor thing.  Made me laugh though, cheered me up no end in fact.

Carrying on with the cheering up theme:  While we were away on  holiday my little tube of travel wash seemed to have rotted all my knickers, they were in tatters!!   Not only that but I was incapable of finding a matching pair of socks on account of not having the brains to get rid of both socks when one became worn out. The end result of this obviously was a drawer full of single socks. It was like a sock lonely hearts club in my sock drawer.

So, where else is a girl to go when she needs knickers and socks? M & S obviously.

No, silly. Not M & S  as in bezzie mate and husband. M & S as in Marks and Sparks, knicker champion for the whole British Isles and further.  The M & S in our town isn’t a massive store. We get the Per Una leftovers when the bigger stores have spit them out. The sad thing is that we fall on them so gratefully!  Our M & S store has an escalator. Just the one, it goes in an upward direction.  That’s great if you’re going up but not so great if you’re going down. I mention this not as a user of  said escalator. My preference has always been to take the steps next to it and mentally challenge myself to get to the top before the person on the escalator next to me.  I always win!

No, the reason I mention it is because of the average age of the customers.  It goes without saying that huge swathes of an M & S store are no go areas for anyone under the age of 85. Elasticated pants and pleated, flower print, crimplene skirts just aren’t for me – and if I ever do develop a liking for them or for ridiculous amounts of beige clothing,  my daughter has strict instructions to euthenise me.  It always amuses me that our ‘poor’ pensioners stand at the checkout in the food hall  on a weekly basis with trollies laden high with overpriced goodies that we can only afford to treat ourselves to occasionally. A client once said to me that when she could afford to do her weekly food shop in M & S she knew she’s made it in the world.

Anyway, back to the plot. Hoardes of pensioners were taking the escalator up to the first floor, going into the cafe for a cup of tea and a garibaldi then making their way back to the escalator only to discover that the only way down was via the steps. Oh dear Lord!! I saw at least three pensioners clinging on to the hand rail terrified of moving, falling  and landing headfirst in a heap by the velour tracksuits. At least one was clearly struggling to catch his breath, he looked like he could have done with a quick whiff of oxygen to get him moving again. A couple looked like they were about to have strokes.  I did actually feel very sorry for  them, they  were clearly having huge problems negotiating the steps. In a store that’s known for the being popular with our more  – ahem- mature citizens I’d expect at least an up and a down escalator.

The plight of the pensioners was soon forgotten once I hit the first floor and got possessed by the shopping frenzy. I bought all manner of new underpinnings and left the store feeling pleased with my new items, no more raiding B’s sock draw!  I’ll have it on record here that I have never raided his knicker draw – my knickers weren’t that tattered and I was never that desperate for clean underpinnings that I’d resort to Y fronts – a girl has to have some standards, you know.

This morning I went to get the result of my health check.  As I told them in the first place – I’m not ill. If I was I’d have gone to see a doctor, wouldn’t I?  Actually, I’m told I’m very healthy for an old bird, fit as a butcher’s dog, in fact.  I was quite impressed that they knew I exercised regularly by my cholesterol count. Clever that, eh?  The only thing wrong with me is that my bout of extreme gardening on Saturday has left me with a bad back. I can hardly bloody move. Fit as a butcher’s dog that can’t move, then.

This morning’s dance lesson was a hoot. have you ever tried to dance a samba when you can’t move?  It’s not easy, take it from me.  Out teacher made the comment that he’s normally trying to get me to calm it  all down by about 10% but today I’d calmed it down by 98%!!   Poor old poochie wont be getting out for her long walks with me for a few days. I hope it gets better soon, I don’t do pain terribly well. It makes me a tad grumpy.


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